I’m sitting in the same place as always. Right on the crack between two hard gray and white spackled lunch tables. I feel a hard chill suddenly leap from the cold plastic chair and into my spine. From there it moves to my nose, and I itch frantically to remove it. About five seconds pass before I realize I’ve made it through first and second block, at this thought I take a deep sigh and unzip my back pack with renewed hunger. Same as always, well since last year that is… I have my three-piece lunch ready to go. It’s the same thing everyday. There is always without fail: strawberry yogurt, an apple and a granola bar inside that crinkly brown paper bag. A funny thought occurs to me just then, “What if this is the only constant thing in my life? What if the only real thing I will ever be able to rely on having is my lunch! My stupid LUNCH!” I find myself giggling out loud and struggle to gain control over my uncontrollable awkwardness. “What’s so funny?” Nat asks sardonically, “Nothing…” I reply, and as usual the conversation comes to a sputtering halt.

Nat and I used to be really good friends. Not ‘good’ friends more like great acquaintances, if that makes sense. We had French together, and eventually became better friends as soccer season approached. Then all of a sudden the only thing we (she) ever talked about was how stupid I acted or how much better her way was than mine or why I wore makeup and she didn’t, and how stupid it is to wear makeup and how stupid I look wearing it. The center of the conversation always revolved around making fun of someone, or criticizing them. Of course I knew this was only because she was self-conscious and only wanted to feel better about herself, I’m not a total dunce. I had to keep repeating this over and over just so I could escape from her condescending tones out of my skull, just so that I could have one moment of respite from her criticism. So, why did I still want to be friends with Nat? I mean if it was really that bad then why didn’t I just find other friends? Because I can’t let go of the old Nat, the one I knew before I KNEW the real Nat. Deep down she’s just a test for me. A test of strength and endurance? No. A test of my character? Maybe, but the ultimate test is one of self-respect. It took me months to realize this. What kind of self-respect do I have if I let the IDEA of a good friend get in the way of my being who I am? If the goal in MY life is to better understand myself, then why can’t I let go of something so trivial and insignificant?

Out of nowhere, in the midst of these contemplations something whips out of no where and straight into my right eye. My eyes starts to tear up and the mysterious substance stings painfully as I realize what has hit me. A cracker. Yes, a cracker thrown by none other than Nat. She apologizes profusely, but for some reason I can’t take her seriously. I run to the bathroom, barley holding myself together. “Just pull it together for twenty more minutes Sam… Just get through it.” I whisper as I push through the heavy wooden door to the Ladies room. The cold floor to ceiling cell like tile gives me a chance to rebound against my own angry feelings. I go to mirror and tell myself it was just a cracker. Just a stupid, and meaningless cracker, but somehow I cannot for the life of me stop crying. I try to get the miniscule bits of cracker out of my eye, but give up thinking that the tears will do the job just fine. I’m repeating over and over in my head “Just pull yourself together and go back out there and act normal. Just do it. Just do it.” So, somehow I manage to stop crying altogether (even if I am left with hiccups) and walk back to my table. There are looks going around, Nat apologizes again and everything masks back to normal. Or so we think. The minute she asks me if I’m ok (once again), I start bawling my eyes out. “NO!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I reach down and yank up my backpack so forcefully that it comes unzipped and everything spills out, but it’s too late. I didn’t even notice it was open until I got home. I sprinted home. I never sprint. NEVER. I have two speeds, walking and jogging. That’s it. But that day, that day I ran.